


Countdown

by usakiwigirl



Series: Torch-ured [3]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Hope, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usakiwigirl/pseuds/usakiwigirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been months since it all went to shit. His heart is healed – well, mostly healed – and his ribs are healed. Okay, like his heart, mostly healed. Has he really screwed things up with Jack that badly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tick Tock

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all timelines are totally at my mercy. I am well aware that they are most likely wrong. Frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck!

Things were looking up. Well, maybe not up, but better. Better than what, he wasn’t sure. But better. It was odd, and strained for a while, but surprisingly, it was Jack who put his mind at ease. There wasn’t any one thing he could point to, either, but instead it was a gradual build, leaving him feeling freer than he had in the last year. Ever since his world caved in the first time, in London. Since then, he’d been in a descending spiral of madness, the only bright spot in the entire journey being Jack. It was no wonder he thought he may just be falling in a direction probably not healthy. Didn’t make him stick out his arms to break his speed of descent, however. If anything, now that Jack seemed to accept him again, he was embracing every second, and hoping like hell the landing was soft. Or soft-ish. Well, at the very least, not rocky.

The whole debacle with Lisa – or Not-Lisa, as he’d taken to calling her in his mind – was finally behind them. There were days when he never even thought about her. And not just the days where he didn’t have time to remember his own name, let alone anybody else’s. Some days when the Rift was quiet, and the Hub still, with the others clearing out while they had the chance, he still didn’t think of her. He supposed he could put it down to time, and a little distance from all the pain. Truthfully, though, he knew it was all Jack.

The man honestly didn’t seem to hold anything against him. Jack’s capacity for forgiveness was unparalleled. He knew enough about his history, and his odd not-staying-dead-forever quirk, to be surprised that he could find even a small bit of love or forgiveness in his heart. The things he must have seen and done over the many years – the number of people he must have said goodbye to, or buried, or been left by. There were some, like Estelle Cole, that he knew Jack kept watch over. He saw, back when they were only just starting to talk again, how much her death hurt. And there had to be others; there was that woman, Alice Carter, who Jack funneled money to every paycheck. He didn’t have a clue as to who she was to Jack – a former lover, maybe. And there was a child, too – Steven. Jack’s son? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t about to ask. It was none of his business. Especially as they weren’t anything to each other, despite how much closer they had become over the last eight weeks.

His injuries from the worst camping trip _ever_ were all healed and no longer an issue. Owen’s wonderful drugs helped him through the first week or so, and then it was back to the regularly prescribed meds until the pain became manageable. It hadn’t been a fun journey. During Tosh’s ill-fated love affair with Mary… well, not really ‘Mary’, was she. An escaped Arcateenian prisoner. Who’d have thought it possible? According to Jack’s notes in the Archives – honestly, did he not realise that particular font went out of style in the 1960’s? – Arcateenian’s in general were fairly passive. Those from Mary’s home planet were all artsy-fartsy types – usually. Loved Woodstock, according to Jack. Others could be complete bores, if they came from the governmental planet. It was their inability to stay alive on Earth without a decent energy source that was their main problem. Highly telepathic – according to Jack – Mary could have found her energy in any number of ways, but stuck on Earth for more than one hundred years, and having a homicidal bent anyway, she ate hearts. Pleasant. Bloody lucky all she gave Tosh was that damn pendant, and not a hole in her chest.

And that pendant. What a nightmare. Poor Tosh. Humans should never hear the thoughts of others. Far too volatile. God knows it was bad enough to read the occasional note left out that shouldn’t be seen. Tosh confided in him, telling him about overhearing Owen and Gwen both, which she said hurt more than anything. They both knew exactly how she felt about Owen – and Gwen, on her moral high horse, carrying on with Owen when she had a perfectly healthy and decent bloke at home. Bit of a slap in the face, that one. To both Tosh and him, actually; Tosh because she was so obviously infatuated with Owen, and him, because he really wanted to be involved with somebody again. Well, with Jack, again. He missed the physical contact a relationship – of any sort – offered. It made his skin itch, he missed it so much.

And then she told him she heard him, too. That was a bit of a worry. Could have heard anything; from him planning to buy coffee and milk, to him daydreaming about pushing Jack against the first solid surface and fucking him senseless, which was an unrealistic fantasy. He’d not been that forward in the past, and wasn’t likely to start now, what with there being little-to-nothing left between he and Jack that would indicate that action would be welcome. Of course, it was neither. She heard him complaining that he _’Can't imagine the time when this isn't everything. Pain so constant, like my stomach's full of rats. Feels like this is all I am now. There isn't an inch of me that doesn't hurt.’_ Quite uncanny, that was, that she was able to remember word-for-word what had rolled through his mind in that instant. He managed to put her off, with the explanation that it was all about the ribs; after all, it was only three weeks since he almost ended up on somebody’s plate, and his bottom two ribs were nicely snapped into the bargain. Thankfully, she didn’t press, as he wasn’t about to tell her that it was also guilt over Not-Lisa, and his ever-burning desire for Jack.

Because that desire for Jack was actually causing him physical pain. He ached, from his heart to his… well, yeah, to his cock. It was weeks – months – since he’d had any relief. He’d not allowed it after Not-Lisa, believing himself unworthy, and since their return from the Brecon Beacon’s it was actually physically painful. He did try, once, but the searing pain that shot through his chest wiped out any pleasure he felt from his orgasm. Pity – he had a feeling it would have been spectacular, had he actually felt it enough to enjoy it. It certainly left a hell of a mess, and he’d not had the energy to clean it up for almost a quarter hour, which turned it from mildly annoying to downright bloody aggravating.

And now that he knew – well, was pretty damn sure, or at least hoping, anyway – that Jack was interested in starting up with him again, he wasn’t about to waste pleasure gained by himself. Everything was better with two. Or three or more, if your name was Jack Harkness and you could persuade the others to join in. Which he probably could, given the level of charm he possessed.

Only now wasn’t going to be a good time to pursue anything further. Weeks of light duty now over for him, it seemed the Rift was no longer medically inactive, either. It had been nice for the team to have some reprieve, but things were picking up again. The number of Weevil sightings was increasing, and he knew for a fact that Jack was going out at night by himself to deal with the calls that came in during the wee smalls. He’d seen the blood-soaked evidence that the idiot tried to hide. Jack really didn’t seem to put ‘general support’ and ‘Hub cleaner’ together, thinking that if he threw it out, it was gone for good. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ seemed to be his modus operandi. And he wasn’t about to tell him otherwise, as that would let Jack know that he knew. And he knew, somehow, that would be a bad idea at this point.

Because he had a solid feeling in his recently healed gut that the shit was about to hit the fan. Again.


	2. Start the Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s given the poor boy the time he needs to heal, both literally and figuratively. But he really isn’t sure how much more he can take. He wants him. He knows it’s not a good idea, but that doesn’t change the facts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive liberties taken with the survivors (and their final dispositions) from Canary Wharf. No disrespect intended.

Today was a good day. Better than any he’d had in the last five months, certainly. Finally, things between him and Ianto were looking up. And ‘up’ would be good. Actually, ‘up’ happened fairly frequently. Certainly, it occurred more often than was comfortable, if Ianto was anywhere close.

Of course, he’d not said a word to Ianto. Not about their past history and the debacle with Ianto’s cybernised girlfriend. He didn’t say anything to remind Ianto of his attempt to restart their physical relationship while suspended and hurting – and he certainly didn’t mention Ianto’s little drug-fuelled confession after the trip to the Beacon’s. It took him a while, but he soon realised that Ianto was well aware of his admission, and that he was extremely embarrassed by it. Far be it for him to make the poor boy feel worse than he did already.

What he did do, was start subtly flirting again. Nothing too overt, not at first. Just letting his fingers linger a little longer than strictly necessary when taking his cup of coffee. Or staring just a second longer than propriety allowed when Ianto first showed up for the day. Or walked by. Or stood anywhere, actually. Hmm. Maybe he wasn’t being as subtle as he thought. Owen did look at him funny now and then, and kept shooting odd glances between them both. Wouldn’t do to out the lad without talking to him first. And talking wasn’t an option. Just have to be careful, then.

Watching Ianto heal from… well, from everything, really, had not been any kind of fun. He knew now of course how badly he’d fucked up in not seeking treatment for him when he first started working. In fact, he should have sought him out sooner than his showing up in the park. It wasn’t the fault of any of the survivors of One what had happened to them. Took him a long time to figure that out. Any of those directly responsible for the disastrous events of that day were long exterminated or deleted. Or upgraded. Or partially upgraded and then summarily executed. The 27 survivors – oh, wait, 21 now. Four had suicided, poor bastards. Couldn’t blame them, he’d probably do the same, if he knew it would stick. One died in a RTA. That poor sod had literally just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe. Perhaps he should check into that, make sure the man hadn’t deliberately run his car into oncoming traffic. Yeah, he should do that. The last one, a woman who worked with Ianto in the Research department, died of cancer. Possibly – maybe, probably – caused by breathing in something nasty during the battle. Maybe he should have Owen check Ianto’s lungs, too. She’d gone awfully fast, one minute healthy, and then dead in three weeks. He didn’t want the same thing happening to Ianto.

Of course, the young man in question was disgustingly healthy. Most of the time. When he wasn’t recovering from PTSD and being beaten half to death by insane country cannibals. At least he was healing. Healed. Not sure about his mind, though. The trauma of Canary Wharf, and then that whole entire Lisa disaster. And then to have those fuckers use him as their main course. Well, try to. God. Even thinking about that night gave him the chills. He’d been so fucking close to losing them all. To losing Ianto. One second. Just one second later and Ianto would have been dead. Or dying. Either way, not good. Hell, maybe he was the one suffering PTSD. Wouldn’t be a big surprise, considering his history.

And that bloody pendant of Tosh’s. Well, Mary’s. Who wasn’t actually Mary. Who’d have thought that would ever happen? Oh, not that Tosh took up with a woman – he didn’t hire people with closed minds. They were all brilliant in their own way, and for this particular job, had to be open to new ideas and experiences. Wouldn’t survive long mentally if they weren’t. He’d seen enough staff over the years lose it completely because they weren’t cut out for the job. No, it wasn’t that Mary was a woman. It was that she wasn’t. A woman, that is. Or even human, actually. Who’d have thought that Tosh – beautiful, sweet, lovely Tosh – would end up shagging an alien? Wasn’t that his bailiwick? Guess two of them could now answer Gwen’s adolescent game with the same cheeky response; ‘does that include alien life-forms?’ Come to think of it, three – no, four – of them could answer that question the same way. Depending on how you looked at it, of course. Gwen kissed Carys when she was possessed by the alien gas life form. And Ianto kissed Lisa when she was partially converted. It was all the same in their three cases – human lips, but not human minds. Not really. Maybe it was only him who could answer that question that way and actually mean it.

But Tosh told him what Ianto was thinking. What she’d overheard from all of them, actually. He knew that Ianto was still hurting at that point. Three weeks wasn’t a lot of time to stop the pain of broken ribs. She told him what Ianto told her – that it was just that, his ribs. He knew different, however. He knew it was all about Lisa, his guilt and his continued heartache. He didn’t see how it could be anything else. Because of that, he backed off just a little. He didn’t want to push things with Ianto too quickly. As much as having him back in his bed was sounding better and better with each passing day – each passing minute, in truth – going too fast would do more damage to the young man’s psyche than anything else that had happened so far.

Because he couldn’t offer Ianto anything more than casual, just like it was before. Couldn’t afford to. His Doctor was coming. Could be any day now. He’d be off. Gone in an instant. Oh, he might have time to say goodbye, but that never was his style. He much preferred sneaking out in the morning, when the sun was still below the horizon, and the warm body in the bed was still deep in slumber.

Huh. Weird. Thoughts of leaving with the Doctor conjuring up images of leaving a lover. Freudian? Possibly. Irritating man, though. Could bore a person to death just by walking in the room. Good lay, however, when he wasn’t thinking about his father. Or his mother.

Good grief. He was all over the map today. Must be a combination of caffeine and sex withdrawal. Probably the sex withdrawal. He should just go out and find a body to bury himself in. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to be buried in Ianto. Or have Ianto buried in him. He didn’t really care which way things went. He just wanted them to go somewhere horizontal. Or vertical. Flat, at least. It was so long since he’d been with another… how long was it, actually?

Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Wow. That long. He’d not gone out and sated his raging libido since the clusterfuck that was Lisa. Huh. That meant he hadn’t been laid since Ianto last left his bed. Or was it his desk? Oh, hang on. It was the Archives. A long leisurely fuck against one of Ianto’s precious filing cabinets, followed by another against the wall in the hallway just outside the entrance to the firing range. Hmm.

Damn. Things were looking ‘up’ again. He so didn’t have time for this just now. The phone was ringing off the hook, and lights were flashing on his computer. Another fucking weevil – or three – out rampaging across Cardiff. He’d have to take care of it himself. He could call the others back in, but they were enjoying a much needed break. All hell was set to break loose, he knew it. The signs the Rift were putting out showed it about to go into overdrive.

And he could handle the Weevils by himself. Not like it was a problem if they killed him. He’d just pop back up when he… whatever’ed. He didn’t really know what to call it. Regeneration? Nah. That was a Time Lord thing. Recovered? Bit vague for bouncing back from death. Recuperated? Nope, not that either. Made it sound like he was getting over a bad case of the flu, rather than healing from a fatal throat gouging. Revived. Yeah, that would do. Not perfect, but summed it up fairly accurately.

He’d have to hide any evidence of injury, however. He’d been tossing the shirts covered with blood out when he cleaned up, making sure they were buried deep in with the rubbish that Ianto burned each night. It must be alright – nobody had bailed him up yet and accused him of keeping secrets. So it was all good.

Except for the lack of sex thing. He kept coming back to that. Only, he wasn’t coming. Not nearly enough, and always on his own. That so needed to be rectified. Quickly.

Tomorrow. After the shit storm he just knew was about to descend on them all. Tomorrow, he and Ianto would talk – or not – and one way or another, the issue of self-satisfaction versus mutual gratification would be sorted.


	3. Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the beginning of the investigation into Pilgrim, and he’s so off balance now he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. The only thing he does know for sure is which one he’d rather it be.

Well, it was official. No more easy days. At least not right now. Lights were flashing all over the place, although by the sounds of it, nothing too major. More noise than actual trouble. But still annoying as all hell. If the Rift was going to start that shit, he was so out of there. Oh, bugger it. Of course he wasn’t. Just, these weeks of reasonable quiet while his ribs healed made him almost want a regular nine-to-five, although he knew full well he’d be bored senseless probably within the first two minutes. Because even when the Rift was quiet, it wasn’t. Always something to do, or look after, to chase down. Then too, if he left, there’d be no Jack. And that just wasn’t going to happen, not if he could help it.

But that probably wouldn’t be an issue anyway, not if the way Jack kept staring at him was any indication. It was all he could do not to check the back of his pants for holes, because Jack’s stare was hot enough and sharp enough to ruin his clothing. It was certainly starting to do a number on his composure. And he was never out of sorts like that. Jack just brought him to the edge so easily. It took active work not to pounce, to push and grab and devour. Strip the man bare and lay him out across a desk. The floor. A wall. Anything, really, as long as he was able to see him clearly in all his glory.

Because even when they’d been fucking, all those long months ago, he’d never really taken the time just to look. Explore. Search out and learn all Jack’s hot spots. He knew some of them; couldn’t bounce in and out of bed, or each other, without learning something. But he wasn’t harried - or hurried - now, pulled down by guilt about Lisa. He could indulge himself, and by extension, Jack.

Only, when was he going to get the chance? If he waited, it could be weeks before Jack acted. He couldn’t go that long. He’d explode. Sure, Jack was most likely well and truly sated on a regular basis; a man that beautiful must have choices lined up around the block. But he himself wasn’t. One orgasm in however many months wasn’t healthy for a 24yr old male. Not one who’d had an _extremely_ active sex life before that. The time between Canary Wharf and getting in here to Cardiff didn’t count. Not like that. He was too traumatised and sick himself to even notice that he wasn’t getting laid. It was only having Jack – and then losing him – that made him realise just what it was he was missing. And that was kind of sad, really. He’d loved Lisa, still loved her even now, but Jack was the one who taught him how to feel during sex. That realisation was the beginning of his healing from her second, and final death.

Jack did need to stop staring, though. Owen was noticing, and that was never a good thing. For himself, he could care less if the rest of them knew that he wanted Jack, or – _god, yes please_ – was fucking him on a regular basis. None of their business really, he wasn’t ashamed. But he sure as shit didn’t need Owen taking the piss, which he most definitely would do. Not that he wasn’t perfectly capable of brushing it off, or returning the snark as needed, because he was. More than capable, in fact. Owen could be mean, though. Bitter little frog-mouthed irritant that he was. He didn’t need Owen chucking the snide comments his way. All it made him want to do was pull a gun and shoot the little bastard. Jack would probably frown on him shooting the team members. Pretty sure Jack reserved the right to do that himself.

God, he really did need to get laid if he was contemplating shooting a team member. Wasn’t it a documented fact that sexual frustration led to a rise in homicidal tendencies? He could well believe it. And if it wasn’t, then he was more than prepared to write up an official looking report and posting it to the web himself, right after pushing it under Jack’s nose and then shagging him blind. If he did a good enough job, he could maybe get it published in medical journals. That would probably shut up Owen - the little bastard - right quick.

Really, he needed to find something other to do than constantly think about sex! Or the complete lack of it in his life. This was getting ridiculous. He groaned.

“Ianto!” Fuck. Of course it was. Jack. Perfect fucking timing. He couldn’t turn around. Jack would be bound to see everything in his face. And his suit trousers weren’t sitting at all properly. Might be because of the raging fucking hard-on he was sporting. Better to just look busy with… um, files? Yes, files. A huge pile of them on the desk in front of him. Could grab those and use them as a barrier, somehow. Not sure how, but he could figure it out. He was a smart man.

“Iantooo…” Jack was singing his name now. Why? Oh. Must have called a couple of times already. Should pay more attention. Files. Right. Grab the files and then turn around.

“Yes, Sir?” He could do this, he could do this. He turned around. Fuck. He couldn’t do this. Jack was right there. Right. Fucking. There. In his face. Disregarding all conventions for personal body space. Close enough to kiss. Shit. Not good, not good, not good. Must shift the files. Christ.

“You okay?”

“Um, yes? Why would—“

“You groaned. I was worried.”

“Oh.” Oh god. How was he to save face, sort this without looking a total fool? Or a lovesick teenager lusting after his teacher? He could feel himself falling, his balance shot to hell. It was only a question of which way he was going to land – on his arse, or face first with his lips plastered to Jack’s.

He didn’t realise he’d squished his eyes closed until a soft brush across his mouth clued him to the direction of his fall. Jack’s hand was low on his back – inappropriately low, _and why the hell wasn’t it even lower?_ – and his lips were feather-light as they exchanged air. He thought his heart was going to stop, or rip straight from his chest and fly straight out of the Hub. And just when did he turn into a fourteen year old girl? He’d never been prone to flights of fancy before.

He was thinking of dropping the files on the floor and putting his best Jackie Chan moves to the test – well, not in so many thoughts, more a general feeling of _more, now, floor, yes, god, yes, fuck, now_ \- when Jack disengaged completely, actually stepping back out of his personal space, which hello, was something that just wasn’t on, not at that precise moment.

“Hold that thought – and those files. Maybe a little lower.”

“Huh?” Well, that was eloquent.

“Never mind. Find out what you can about Suzie Costello and her after-work activities. Anything to do with Pilgrim.”

“Yes, Sir. Anything else?” Better. Somewhat. Still minimal. A three year old could manage a sentence that basic. Brain functions all seemed to have fled to warmer, southern climes. Along with blood flow.

“Coffee. And when this is all over, maybe we’ll make a little pilgrimage of our own.”

Ah. Well, Jack, it seemed, could still manage the most horrendous of innuendos. Thank fuck for small mercies. He didn’t think he’d heard anything sweeter in months.

He smiled. “I can manage that, Sir.” He pulled out the small stopwatch he habitually carried in his pocket, watching in delight as Jack’s eyes glowed. “Coffee will be ready in five.”


	4. Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crisis with Suzie is over, but Jack is still hung up about what a terrible leader he is.

Why now? Just when things might possibly be looking up, and in the best way possible, to boot. Months of a monk-like existence looked to be finally at an end, or near enough, and _now_ Suzie Costello had to rise from the dead to stick a metaphorical screw in his plans. Well, not even a metaphorical screw at that. A literal screw, and he wasn’t even going to enjoy an orgasm out of it. If he had to take it up the ass – and he really had no problem with that, not if Ianto was behind the wheel, so to speak – then he’d really like a say in where, and how. Or at least when. And he’d prefer to know in advance with what. Some things, despite his loose reputation, just didn’t belong anywhere near his ass, at least not without a decent amount of preparation and a healthy amount of lubrication.

Okay, so he was pissed. That was a given. It had truly hurt him when he’d lost her the first time, even if the bitch had shot him point blank. He’d failed her; left her to flounder with that goddamn glove, let it suck out her soul, her vitality, her very spark of life, until all that remained was a cold-hearted killer. He didn’t really believe that she meant to take that road, not at the beginning, but that glove was dangerous; he’d known it from the start, but he’d failed to watch her closely as she worked on it, failed to see her spiraling out of control. It just highlighted his other failures as a leader – Ianto and Lisa/Psychotic-robo-bitch cyber-girlfriend-from-hell; friendly eat-your-heart-for-dinner country cannibals, to name just two. Not to mention how he’d never even seen his own team leader from the turn of the century disintegrate before his eyes and turn murderous and suicidal. He just wasn’t cut out for this sort of responsibility. He was going to get them all killed, he knew it.

But it was done now. It was over. Suzie was back where she belonged, locked away in her cold storage drawer, never to get out again. They’d caught her in time to save Gwen, so at least, this time, he’d managed not to lose another team member. He wasn’t counting Suzie – she was already dead. Sure, it hurt to lock her away again. There’d been a certain perverse charm in crossing swords with her once more, if he was honest with himself. He’d always enjoyed sparring with her verbally. She had a sharp wit, that one. But it wasn’t right. Hypocritical of him, yes, but the dead needed to stay dead, not wander about the corridors of the Hub, or coerce members of his team to break them loose and take them off to murder their parents. It just wasn’t done. Wasn’t cricket, as some of the earlier members of Torchwood used to say. Never did understand that one – he’d had to have one of the boys sit down and explain it to him. Bit of a waste of time, although the side benefits were well worth the effort if he remembered correctly.

Still, putting Suzie away had given him a few minutes alone with Ianto, which was always a good thing. The boy was looking much better, his injuries obviously healing nicely – he no longer winced when he moved suddenly, or reached for objects on high shelves. Not that he was looking, not really. Well, okay, yeah he was. He couldn’t really help it. Ianto was just so damn hot! His suit trousers would pull taught across his ass when he reached up to the top shelves in the Archives, or bend at the waist to pull out a file, or even leaned over a desk – gods, that was the worst. It was all he could do not to drool, or moan, or if in reach, grab hold and sink his teeth into the firm flesh on display.

He sounded better, too. Not so broken. He was flirting back, maybe not as much as before Lisa, but more and more all the time. He still had moments where he was clearly down, but there were longer periods in between, and more smiles were in evidence. A smile from Ianto was a thing to behold, a rare instance of pure radiance. His face would morph from merely handsome to downright breathtaking, one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen.

Hold up. Ianto had flirted and smiled over Suzie’s body just a few minutes previously, waving that damn stopwatch around and actually propositioning him – a first for the boy. He’d not really been thinking with all cylinders when he’d responded, letting Ianto know he’d see him in ‘ten’, but the more he thought on it, he realised that the boy was dead serious. The expression was there behind the cheeky smile – he was making a move. Obviously tired of waiting, Ianto was pushing the issue forward. What was it he’d replied? Ah yes, that he’d send all the team home. Good thing they were already off. A quick check of his watch showed that he only had a few more minutes before his ten was up. Just enough time to drop down into his bunker and brush his teeth. It had been far too long since he’d kissed Ianto properly, and the boy deserved a clean mouth to invade and taste.

Gods, he was more nervous than a man of his years had a right to be. He was acting more like a teenager waiting for his first sexual experience than a man who’d slept his way through school – and he wasn’t referring to the lessons. His teachers learned more than they ever taught. It was just so long since he’d had sex with anything other than his right hand. Or his left hand. He wasn’t one to limit himself. Past experience with Ianto, no matter how hurried, was all the proof he required to know that anything about to happen would blow his mind, quite literally. The boy was, without a doubt, the best lay he’d ever had. Inexperienced, yes, but a quick learner, and eager, and more than capable of coming up with the most fantastic ideas all on his own. Hell, just thinking about him was almost enough to send him over.

A noise from the door to his office caught his attention. Ianto leaned casually against the frame, his shirt sleeves rolled to mid forearm, the crisp hair standing to attention in the cool air. His tie was loosened and hanging below the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, while the waistcoat hung open at his side. He oozed sex from every pore, although tension was still evident behind his eyes. He held the stopwatch up in one hand, finger poised on the button at the top.

“Time.”


	5. Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the boys sort themselves out, after months of self-doubt and recriminations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up in first person, as it just wanted to be that way. I know the rest of the series hasn’t been, but as this has mostly been Ianto’s journey, it seemed a good way to end it, buried deep in his head, using his voice.

_”Time.”_

Well, as opening statements go in seductions, that one could probably have used a little work. Then again, judging from the way Jack’s eyes light up, it probably does the job just fine. Just as well, really, as I don’t think I could string together two coherent words at the moment. God, he just looks so fucking hot standing there. I mean, he always does, it’s true, but just now? Smokin’. I don’t know if he’s aware of it, but he already looks like he’s just climbed out of bed after a marathon session of mind-blowing sex. His hair is the very definition of ‘bed-head’, while his skin is slightly flushed and his eyes are glassy, with hardly any blue around his pupils. It’s a good look on him, but part of me wishes I put it there on his face. I suppose I have, but only by suggestion. I’d like to do it by action.

I feel a little lost looking at him, to be honest. Months of confusion, of desire, of hatred and anger and hurt and lust and pain and just plain want have lead me here to his office tonight, and even though this was my idea, I don’t really know what to do now. I know I told him there were all sorts of things we could do with the stopwatch, but at this moment, I can’t think of one, beyond maybe the obvious; how quickly can he make me come? In all honesty, I don’t think he’d even need a stopwatch for that. I think I’d blow if he so much as breathes on me right now. I haven’t done more than pass a hand over myself in months, and even then that’s only been half-hearted at best. It’s been too painful; first because of how I felt after Lisa died, and then because my ribs made it near impossible.

And the truth is, I don’t want to do it to myself. I want Jack. I long ago reconciled the feelings I have about him – for him – about just how much I want the man. As much as I loved – still love – Lisa, I have come to realise that Jack has been my focus for far longer than she has been gone. He was my focus long before the programming in her system took her completely. I do not think I love him, not yet, but I suspect it is only a matter of time. I do know, without a doubt, that he is the best sex I’ve ever had, or am likely to have. Not that I plan on looking for sex anywhere else. Why would I? Seriously, why would I go out looking for something better, when the best is standing right in front of me?

Standing. Right in front of me. Oh my God. I didn’t notice. Why didn’t I notice? I didn’t see him move across the office. He’s right in front of me, only a few centimetres away. I can feel the heat coming from his body. I can smell him – why does he always smell so bloody good? He says he doesn’t wear aftershave, even made some crack about 51st Century pheromones that night we caught Myfanwy, but really, who does he think he is kidding? I might be young, but do I really look like I fell off the turnip truck yesterday? Don’t answer that. Oh, but that doesn’t change the fact that he smells divine. Like freshly mown grass, and sandalwood, and patchouli and bergamot. All spicy and fresh, like a warm spring day. That smell makes me hard as a rock, every time. I could hammer nails right now. And he knows it; I can tell by the smirk on his lips, the bastard.

Still, his scent does have the desired effect of relaxing me – well, sort of. My mind is relaxed, at least. Other parts of me are wound tighter than the spring on the stopwatch. I’m still in danger of blowing like a pressure cooker with as little as a glancing touch. I want him to touch me, I really do, but I’m deathly afraid of it at the same time. I don’t want to disappoint him. Maybe… maybe it would be better if I do the touching first.

He is reaching out a hand for me, but I manage to grab his wrist before his fingers brush my skin, thankfully. He looks surprised, but willing to let me lead, for which I am grateful. It’s been so long since we did anything, anything at all, and I never did any leading then. It was all Jack. That he is allowing me to take over now means so very much to me – it means that he has forgiven me for my betrayal with Lisa. It means that he really does want to be with me, that he wants me as much as I want him. Fuck, just the thought of that is almost enough to drive me over the edge.

I mean, that’s not to say I didn’t take charge on occasion – I’m not a passive man when it comes to sex. It’s just that the guilt I felt over Lisa, over using Jack, kept me from instigating anything in the past. I did think of it, more than once during those six months. Jack… well, Jack makes me want to do things. Wicked things. Things that would make my dearly departed mother blush. And I’m more than happy to do them, too. Starting now.

I begin by lifting his hand up to my mouth. If this was Lisa, I would kiss her palm, her wrist, stroke the soft skin on the inside of her arm. But it’s not. It will never be Lisa again – and I’m actually okay with that. I mean, yeah, it hurts. I knew it would. I knew that touching Jack for the first time would bring up feelings and memories that maybe I don’t really want to feel, or remember at this moment.

“Ianto.” Jack’s voice is soft, and quiet. It startles me, despite the obvious attempt not to do so. “You okay? You don’t… We don’t have to do this. I don’t think you’re ready.”

Well, that really does startle me. I wasn’t expecting that sort of empathy from Jack, although truly, after all we’ve been through over the last few months, it shouldn’t surprise me this much. Jack should hate me, yet he doesn’t. The proof of that is him standing here, now, in front of me. Or the fact that I am standing here in front of him, instead of laid out on a slab, or stuffed in a cold storage drawer like Suzie – or worse, drooling in an alley, retconned back to infancy. Jack has forgiven me. He has allowed me back into the Hub, back into his life, and now, he is giving me the chance to be back in his bed, somewhere I’ve wanted to be since before that awful night – hell, since the first moment I saw him.

He pulled his hand free from mine when he spoke. I think he was attempting to give me space. God, I think this might push me closer to the point of no return, of loving this man. I know how dangerously close I am already. I need to show Jack that I am okay. That I honestly don’t mind feeling this way. Yes, I miss Lisa. Yes, I still love her, still want her. I will always feel that way. But he needs to know that he is my new focus, my new reason for being. I want him. I want him more than I ever wanted her, which is a little disconcerting to realise, but it is the truth, and I’ve made myself a promise that I will not lie, at least not to myself – and if at all possible, not to him. He deserves the truth, always.

I grab his hand again, lifting it up to my face. “This is what I want, Jack. It’s just…” I don’t know how to finish the sentence, to say the words that need to be said, but he takes them from me anyway.

“I’m not her.”

“No.” I make sure to look him in the eye as I speak. I don’t want him to think I’m hiding anything. He needs to see I mean everything I say, including those words I cannot speak out loud. “But that’s…”

“Okay. I get it. Your mind was confused.”

“Yes. No. Yes.” God, if Owen heard that, he’d say I was about as clear as mud just then, and rightly so.

“If I was her, what would you do?”

“Kiss her hand, her wrist. Stroke the skin of her arm up to her shoulders, reach around her body, and pull her close. Bury my face behind her ear, in the crook of her neck, lick the hollow of her throat, between her breasts…”

“You can do all that with me, for the most part. I mean, there are some obvious differences, but I’m just as sensitive as a woman – you know this. We’ve done this – most of this – before. What’s stopping you?”

What was stopping me? I don’t really know. The weight of Jack’s hand in mine is wrong, but he is right – we have done this before – sort of. Maybe not so deliberately. All of our past trysts were more on-the-fly fucks, quick assignations over a desk, or against a wall. Never a planned seduction, such as this, never one where time was taken to actually explore. I know, to a certain degree, what to do to bring him off, but that doesn’t mean I know what to do to bring him to a slow boil, to leave him gasping for breath, begging for release. I knew every inch of Lisa’s body, and just what to do to bring her the most pleasure. While the sex with Jack, by far, was the best – the most explosive – I’d ever experienced, I didn’t really know anything about Jack’s body, not in the same way as I did Lisa. Now was my opportunity to learn.

I smile at him. It feels a little strange, smiling. In some small corner of my mind, I note that it is because I don’t smile much anymore, haven’t really since before Canary Wharf. I resolve to try harder. This is my new beginning, a second chance. I have a real reason to smile again. Jack – and by extension, the team – deserve to see a bit more of the real me. Not all of me, no. Probably not ever that. I don’t think I can ever be that open again. Not even for Jack, which kills me just a little bit inside to realise. I don’t want to hide from him, not anymore, but there are some things I just can’t tell him, not unless he asks. If he takes the time to ask me, then I’ll tell him. But I won’t volunteer the information. It’s just a little too painful, a little too close to home – quite literally.

Still, this isn’t the time for that sort of introspection. He’s standing less than half a metre away from me, well inside my personal space. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell his scent – pheromones or aftershave, I don’t really care, it’s intoxicating. There are so many options and things I could do to explore, but Jack is right; he is – we all are – as sensitive as the next person. I’m already holding his hand up at face level, so I may as well start there.

His hand is strong. His fingers are long, and I would think, with the nasty jobs we do here in the Hub, they would be dirty, but they look well-manicured. He doesn’t even have calluses from his weapon, which I find a little strange, considering how often he holds it in his hand. I know that he is always down in the range, murdering paper targets. Better than live ones, I suppose. Better than me, for sure. The skin is soft, nearly as soft as Lisa’s, so lifting it to my mouth doesn’t feel weird at all, once I stop thinking.

I press a kiss to the palm, at first with my lips closed, then again, parting them just enough to slip my tongue out so I can taste the heat of his skin. I swear, despite how fanciful it sounds, that I can taste his smell. Perhaps his claim of pheromones is no lie after all. It may go a long way towards explaining how he has pulled me so deep into his web in the first place. Or perhaps not. If I am honest - sticking to my plan never to lie to myself – I think I walked very willingly into the centre of the trap. He was my escape during such an unendurable time of stress. Now he is my salvation.

I run my tongue lightly across his palm, following his life-line. It is very odd, that line; on most people it sort of runs out gradually, as life most often has a tendency to do, be it short or long, but on Jack, it sort of stops suddenly, much sooner than it should, given his age. If I was to ascribe to these things – which I don’t – then by all rights, he should be dead. Long dead. Yes, I know he has this problem with staying dead, I’ve seen the evidence. In fact, I wish he would talk to me about it. But we haven’t reached that level of trust yet. Maybe soon. But it is obvious something happened to interrupt his life, and hence the interrupted life-line. And really, I’m supposed to be kissing his palm, not theorising on his possible immortality. I need to turn my attention to the task at hand – so to speak.

Just this light sip of him is getting to me. My head is swimming, between the divine tang of his skin, and the heady rush of blood leaving to harden that which was already firm enough. Honestly, they could call me the man of steel at this point. Licking his palm is not enough, though. I want to taste more, to consume and devour. But all in good time. I draw my tongue further across his hand, up towards his fingers. So far, Jack has not made a sound, yet I can hear him as he breathes – he is starting to sound a little laboured, as if he ran all the way from the lower levels of the Hub to meet me in his office. My eyes are closed, but I can still see his face – see how his eyes have darkened so that all the blue has nearly disappeared, see how his mouth is parted, his tongue just resting on the lower lip, his cheeks slightly flushed. He looks like sex personified.

Without conscious thought, or action, my tongue travels the length of his longest finger, swirling the tip gently before slowly pulling it into my mouth and sucking softly. For the first time, Jack breaks his silence, although barely. It is more a change in the air pressure that clues me, as he sucks in air, his entire body tightening, although as his hand remains limp in my grasp. I gain a new appreciation for the man, that he is able to retain so much control over his body even as it is undergoing sensory onslaught.

I increase the pressure on his finger, replicating the action I would take if I was sucking something else – something bigger, harder – something more likely to spill sweet/salty cream deep in my throat. Just that thought, coupled with the action I am already undertaking, along with Jack’s unique smell, and the sudden tight grasp of his hand on my hip; well, all that and it’s over. My body stiffens and my orgasm rushes through me with no warning. It is intense, nearly painful, and the best thing I’ve felt in six months.

It is also the most embarrassing. I still have Jack’s finger in my mouth, my tongue still wrapped around the tip and the desire to suck it deep stronger than ever. I open my eyes slowly; I don’t want to see the disappointment on Jack’s face. After all, we are supposed to be having a long night of fun with each other, and the stop watch. Instead, after only a minute, I have spilled in my pants like a thirteen-year old boy given his first opportunity to touch… well, whatever he could touch that wasn’t himself. I let his finger go with a small, wet pop.

Instead of disappointment, I see a gentle smile, rueful and apologetic. I quirk an eyebrow; I don’t understand what Jack has to apologise for. I mean, I am the one who… well. Enough said.

“You are amazing, Jones, Ianto Jones.”

“Jack? I don’t—“

He looks down. I have a moment of panic, as I know he is going to laugh at me for coming like a green boy, but no. He is not looking at me, but at himself. He raises his face to me again, a slight flush on his cheeks again, this time not so much from arousal, but from embarrassment.

“I know it’s been a while… well. Still, I haven’t come in my pants since I was a young man. That is why you are amazing. There’s nobody like you, Ianto.”

Oh. Despite my own embarrassment, I cannot help a small glow of achievement. I did that. With just my mouth. And his finger. I brought Jack Harkness to completion – and in under a minute. Yes, I also did the same to myself, but that is irrelevant. I cannot help but feel empowered by this. I still don’t know quite what to do next, however.

Thankfully, Jack doesn’t dwell on it, nor does he make any mention of my own uncomfortable state. Instead, he grabs me by the hand and leads me to his bunker entrance, gesturing largely with his free arm.

“I think a shower, or at the very least, a warm cloth? I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to feel a little cold and sticky.” He throws me a quick grin before dropping my hand and disappearing down the hatch. So much for thinking he wasn’t going to make any mention of our mutual condition. Still, his suggestion has merit; I am beginning to feel quite uncomfortable, and not just from the embarrassment. What was once warm and moist, is now turning cold and rather glue-like, and I can feel it pulling as I move. Too much longer, and I fear it will start to itch, which is unpleasant in the extreme. If I want to make any sort of positive impression with Jack, surely a clean body is a good start?

Besides, just the thought of pressing up against him under a hot shower is doing wondrous things to me. A rapid refraction period is a blessing that I did not have the opportunity to enjoy too often with Lisa. Don’t think I am complaining here; our love life was amazing - she was amazing. But once a night was enough for her. I soon learned to make the most of our time together, so that my enjoyment of her, and with her, could be drawn out and not wasted in a flash.

With Jack, however, I suspect he will not mind if I come, and come – and come again. In fact, I dare say, he will encourage it actively. I am quick to follow him down the ladder. His bedroom is small, barely large enough to hold the two tiny pieces of furniture crammed in there – a small dresser and an even smaller camp bed. He is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear the sound of water running from the open door on the one wall with nothing on it. I am just thinking about taking off my waistcoat when Jack’s head pops around the corner of the door, his usual smirk firmly in place. Strangely, that grin of his does more to put me at ease than anything else.

“Hurry up, Ianto. Don’t want all the hot water to run out, now do we?” A useless argument, that; I know for a fact we have unlimited hot water in the Hub. The system was replaced when Jack took over as leader with a state-of-the-art instant water heating unit that heats on demand. I installed one in my own flat for Lisa after seeing the one here in the Hub, I was so impressed. Cost a few pounds, but my own hedonistic tendencies toward bathing have more than paid for it since the installation.

Jack’s head disappears back around the door, but he takes the time to throw out his hand – and arm – to beckon me along. It is obvious that he has already disrobed, at least his shirt. His arm is bare to his shoulder, so I must surmise he has nothing at all on his torso. If I know anything at all about Jack, I can only assume that he is not wearing pants, either.

I quickly remove my jacket, looking for a place to hang it. I could just lay it across his bed, but I don’t wish to; I have hopes that the bed will be needed soon, and I do not want to have to clear it of clothing first. A quick look around the tiny room shows a row of hooks on the wall behind the ladder. Jack has hangers there that I can use for my trousers and waistcoat. I also note that his shirt and trousers are already dropped on the floor. I give him credit; he moves very quickly when motivated. He was only a matter of seconds before me down the ladder, yet he disrobed amazingly fast and made it to the attached bathroom before I finished my descent.

My shirt and tie are also hung, although just looped over one of the hooks. My belt I tuck into my shoes, along with my socks. As for my underwear – well, I’d rather burn them, to be honest. They are nearing the point of pain to remove. Beyond cold and wet, they are now sticking in places I’d rather they didn’t. It is a relief to have them off. There is a small rubbish bin tucked in the corner behind the ladder; as I drop my underwear in there, I can see that Jack has had the same idea. It makes me want to laugh, that we both are finding ourselves in the same situation. It is slightly ridiculous to be an adult – an experienced adult, at that – yet still reduced to throwing our soiled underwear in the rubbish after an accident. I remember doing just that as a teenager, although it was to hide the evidence from my sister. Rhi was merciless in her teasing. I would do all I could to prevent her knowing anything like this ever happened to me, including the cause of such accidents. I made sure to keep any magazines under lock and key – and _not_ in the house – and I sure as hell never let her see me with anybody. There was no way she would have understood me; that I was not just interested in girls, but in boys as well. Experimentation was not easy on the Estates, but it could be managed, as long as precautions were taken. And I was nothing, if not cautious. Still am, truth be told.

But now I want to be anything but cautious. I want to be reckless. I am naked in Jack’s bunker; I have already spilled in my underwear like a raw youth, merely from sucking on his finger, mimicking the action of going down on him. I can feel myself harden again at the thought of all we can do now that our most urgent need has been taken care of. We can touch, and explore, without fear of premature release.

I move toward the bathroom. There is plenty of steam now filling the room, diffusing the light and creating a warm atmosphere that welcomes me in. Incongruously, the bathroom is much bigger than the miserable excuse for a bedroom behind me. A huge glassed-in shower dominates one wall, with plenty of room for two men to enjoy the water without feeling cramped. There is a counter with a sink, and a large mirror above, while a modern toilet is tucked away between the counter and the shower. On the wall opposite the counter, a large, free-standing tub sits empty. My mouth waters at the sight; I freely admit to having a weakness for bathing in a tub, despite my recent issue with breaking my ribs while getting out of my own.

Jack’s tub is large enough, like his shower, for two grown men to enjoy together. I do not know if the bathroom is designed for two, or if it is just a happy coincidence, but I can foresee many good times ahead between us, if all goes to plan.

After my cursory, but thorough, examination of the room, I note that Jack is already in the shower. He looks amazing with the water streaming over his body. I’ve never seen him completely naked before; always in the past, we’ve remained partly clothed. At best, trousers may have been dropped, or shirts unbuttoned. I don’t think anything ever came off completely, with the possible exception of my suit jacket. Or his shirt. But on those rare occasions, those particular items were removed long before starting anything sexual, so they didn’t really count.

Now, I can see just how perfect he is, despite the condensation that is gathering on the glass of the shower. His skin is a light gold, as warm to look at as it is to touch. Even though my view is obscured, I can tell that he is nicely muscled, without being too huge. I already know that while we are evenly matched in height, he is bigger than me, so it is nice to have the confirmation that he is not so much bigger that I could not take him. Although honesty compels me to admit that in my current physical condition, that is highly unlikely. I still need to increase my weight after losing so much from the stress of Canary Wharf, looking after Lisa, and those bloody cannibals.

I could spend hours standing here staring at him, but staring is not likely to get me fucked. I want to do him, too, more than nearly anything else, but I think, right now, what I really want is him. I want to feel him, all of him, pressed up against me, pushing me into the wall of the shower, his fingers stretching me, his…

“Ianto. You coming?”

Oh, he has no idea. Just hearing him say that, as I am thinking what I want him to do – well, yeah, I could very well be ‘coming’.

“Yep.”

He laughs, the bastard, as if he knows full well what I am thinking. Most likely he does. I move to the shower and open the door, nearly drowning in the swirl of steam that pours forth. If I thought his smell was strong before, I was sorely mistaken; the steam and heat of the shower has somehow intensified everything, enveloping me in a fog as thick as any I could imagine in one of those old-fashioned Middle Eastern clubs, with the hookah pipes, and thick clouds of shisha smoke curling through the air. Yeah, intoxicating is a pretty accurate description, probably more so now than before.

I am feeling more confident now, so waste no time in pressing up close against him. In our earlier interaction in his office, all that happened was me sucking on his finger and kissing his palm. I realise now that we didn’t kiss. I miss kissing Jack. We never did it that often in the past, always too much in a hurry to get to the main event, but when we did, it was always special.

I think Jack senses exactly what I am wanting, as he too wastes no time. He slides one hand around my back, and places the other behind my head, just as I am putting my own arms around his shoulders. He uses his big hand to keep my head steady as he leans in and presses his lips against mine, the pressure not too firm to start with. His lips are full, soft and lush. He doesn’t just push his way into my mouth, either, as I have had other men do in the past – yes, I have kissed other men, but it was many years ago, when I was still a relatively inexperienced youth. I did not come into this thing with Jack with my eyes closed. I knew what I was doing from the very beginning. At least, I thought I did. Jack has taught me so much more than any of those other men. Jack – and Lisa, too – are leagues ahead of all of them in terms of experience, and class, and sheer inventiveness. Not to mention the hotness factor. In that, I’m not even sure Jack is human. But I digress. I was talking about his kisses.

He is so gentle, just sliding his lips across mine. Small, nibbling bites with his lips leads to larger, harder bites with his teeth – still gentle, yet incredibly arousing. He moves from one side of my mouth to the other, leaving no millimetre of my mouth untouched. I try and return the action, but a low growl from Jack indicates that I should just remain passive for now. I suppose he is telling me it is his turn, now. My body is singing just from these light brushes of his lips, so I can deal with his quiet demand. Besides, it is not but a moment or two more before his tongue is painting delicious lines across my lips, gently seeking entry into my mouth. I have no problem granting permission.

He is just as gentle with the intrusion of his tongue as he was with the soft biting of my lips. He takes the time to swipe across all of my teeth, as if counting them one-by-one, and then darting up to stroke along the ridges of my soft palate. I can feel shivers down my spine, as I am especially sensitive on the roof of my mouth, and he is being almost too soft as he moves. It tickles, and I can feel a sneeze building in the back of my nose, but before it has the chance to actually manifest, Jack drops his tongue and glides it the length of my own. Hot, wet, slick – God, my tongue is having sex and loving every second. The soft gentle kiss is a thing of the past. The moment our tongues touch, all turns to fire. I swear Jack’s body temperature increases tenfold; I know I feel my own go up at least that much. Flames are licking at my toes, I am sure of it. My knees, my arse – my body is on fire, simply from kissing Jack.

I feel a thump against my back, and it takes a moment to sink into my lust-addled brain that Jack has pushed me into the wall of the shower. It is a good thing, really; my knees are weakening rapidly and I fear that without the support of the wall, I would fall to the floor in an embarrassing heap. I can feel his hands as they travel all over my body – no longer are they merely holding my waist, or my head. He is actively seeking out every part of my skin. It is only when he gasps into my mouth that I note with surprise that I am doing the same thing to him; my fingers have latched onto his nipples and are squeezing quite hard. His length is pressed into my hip and he obviously enjoys what I am doing, as he rocks quite vigorously as I twist them. Of course, Jack being Jack, he returns the favour. I can see the appeal of the action nearly immediately. It is only by taking a massive deep breath – which necessitates breaking the kiss, unfortunately – and banging my head against the shower wall that prevents me from coming a second time. I never knew I was connected in such a way, or that the sudden sensation of pain when already aroused and close to the edge could be my undoing.

Jack chuckles, the bastard. I can tell, even through his laugh, that he is struggling to hold on as well, so I don’t feel like I am the only one who is on the edge of being out of control. Although he has not said so outright, his actions – plus a few cryptic words he mentioned when he came earlier – make me think that possibly he has not been out on the town screwing around since the disaster with Lisa like I first thought. If that is the case, then it goes a long way to explaining why I was able to make him come in his pants like a teenage boy. A little ego-bruising in that respect, but then again, not, as it means he waited for me. And that just makes me sound like a teenage girl, so I should stop thinking and get back to just feeling. The look on Jack’s face tells me he agrees with me. It is scary how well he reads me, sometimes.

To help me along the path to feeling, and not thinking, Jack spins me around to face the wall. He lifts my hands up to shoulder height, placing them firmly against the tile. He turns my head, then gently presses my cheek into the wall. The tile is cool against my skin, but soon starts to warm. His hands glide down my shoulders and back, and around to my waist and hips. He uses his superior strength to tug on my hips, indicating that I should pull my lower body out from the wall, with one foot between my legs nudging them apart. I feel like a suspect in a police raid, nabbed by the Bill after nicking a bottle from the local liquor store. But then, I have a little experience in this feeling, although not while naked; I was nabbed by the Bill, for shoplifting no less. Yeah, I was a little punk kid from the Estates. I just count myself lucky that I made it out of there alive. Of course, look where I work now; I’ll be lucky to make it to my next birthday.

I feel very vulnerable in this position, but in a good way, unlike when I was a teenager. Now, the anticipation is crawling across my skin, just like then, but this time leaving me with pleasant tingles of arousal. I am so hard that I am glad not to be leaning up against the wall – I think that would actually be more of a punishment at this point, putting me in grave danger of breaking something I’m rather fond of and wanting to get a lot more use from.

I think I am already leaning a decent amount out from the wall, my arse feeling very exposed, but Jack tugs on my hips again, pulling me even further. I have to slide my hands and head down the wall some to accommodate the new position. My back is bent at nearly a 45 degree angle to the wall, he has me leaning so far over. I do not know what he has planned for me at the moment. His hands are caressing my back, causing me to shiver, and goose bumps to rise across my skin. It is only the warmth of the water and the steam surrounding us that stops me from pulling away from him, or from shaking uncontrollably.

Jack’s hands slide down over my hips and around to cup my arse. I thought I felt exposed before, but this is a whole new level. His thumbs caress along the crease of my arse, each pass bringing them even deeper. Jack’s hands are the only part of his body that I can feel – he has stepped completely back out of reach. It wouldn’t matter if he is draped across my back, or not; he has placed my hands up by my head, and that is where they shall stay. The order is silent, but implicit. I would not dream of disobeying, not now.

My entire body is vibrating – miniscule shivers of delight – by the time Jack’s thumbs brush over my entrance. It takes every ounce of muscle control not to jump, as sparks of pleasure light across every nerve. It has been so long – far too long – since I have been touched this way. Jack continues to brush teasingly past my hole, just feathery passes with each thumb, slowly adding a little pressure with each swipe, yet still not nearly enough. I want to yell, to cry, to beg - whimper, scream, plead – all of the above and everything else to get him to do more. To have him stop and never stop all at the same time.

I am not prepared, however, when he does just that – stop. My breath catches in my throat, my eyes water, and I want to pummel the walls in frustration when his hands leave my arse and there is nothing. I don’t, however. I know that he would not leave me hanging like this. At least, I don’t think so. Despite everything, a small tendril of doubt creeps in. I have done too much, betrayed him too heavily, for it not to cloud my thinking in some way.

Before I can let it take me over completely, however, his hands are back. This time, they are sitting differently. The angle is off, not what it was before, as if his body is in a whole different position. With my eyes closed – I could not keep them open before – I cannot tell where he is, but it feels… it feels almost as if he is kneeling behind me. My mind is reeling at the implication – what can he be doing? I cannot think why he would be kneeling behind me, when the obvious reason for kneeling is facing away from him?

My mind is going in circles, trying to piece this puzzle together, when his hands – his big, gentle, strong hands – spread the cheeks of my arse and I have one moment of sudden clarity. Oh. My. God. Is he… Yes, he is. His tongue is hot, and wetter than the shower, although I have no clue how. It takes all my willpower, and every bit I can beg, borrow, and steal from God and every other deity I can name – and those I can’t – not to scream. Holy fuck, but that is the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt. It makes all the nerve endings sing arias the like of which the Four Tenors would be jealous. My body is hitting notes I do not even think exist, not on this planet at least.

I have just enough brain power left to make one last mental note; Jack’s tongue – and by extension his mouth – should be made a lethal weapon. I will register it as such when I recover. If I recover. And then I stop thinking. Because Jack is tonguing me, laying it flat and laving the skin all around, turning his tongue into a spear and driving hard into the tight muscle, working deeper with each thrust and pushing me closer and closer to the edge. He is relentless. I have heard of rimming, but it is something I have never tried, or experienced before. It never interested me, to be honest. I couldn’t see what the big draw was. Well, obviously, I just needed to have the right person involved. That person would be Jack. I would bet good money that he is the best – and if he is the best to dish it out, then by all rights, he would be the best to learn from. After all, I learned my blowjob skills from him, just by watching and paying attention.

I can feel myself rapidly descending toward orgasm as Jack continues his ministrations. I am no longer silent, either. I cannot help it – I am panting, whimpering, near crying and begging, although even I do not know exactly what I am saying. I suspect nothing at all coherent. I have never felt anything like this – and then Jack adds another layer to the experience. I feel a finger slide in beside his tongue. I cannot help it; my hips snap forward, despite his firm grip, and my vocalisations become louder. His finger feels amazing next to his tongue. He uses it well, as he would, in and out, around and around, spreading moisture and heat. The addition of his finger allows his tongue to push even deeper inward, and he adds sucking to everything else. I can feel myself tipping even further toward my climax.

Jack slides a second finger in beside the first, not bothering to remove his tongue. I would think his mouth would be tired, but he shows no signs of slowing down. His hand is not slow, either, with his fingers moving rapidly in and out, spreading and closing in an effort to stretch me. I haven’t felt this way in well over six months, and because of the addition of Jack’s tongue, I’ve never felt the stretch like this at all. I am wanting him so badly, but not wanting this to stop to have him. I want this to continue to its natural conclusion.

Jack brushes over my prostate with his fingers as he sucks particularly hard, a combination that finally pushes me over the edge. I cannot hold it any longer, no matter that I want to feel him inside me when I come. If I thought my orgasm upstairs in his office was intense, I am sorely mistaken. This one makes that pale into insignificance. My vision whites out immediately as I start to shoot – and the hot gob of come that hits the underside of my chin attests to the force behind the ejaculation. I think that might be a personal best for distance, at least unaided. After all, neither I, nor Jack, have laid a hand to my length. My body is no longer shaking minutely; massive tremors are rocking me from head to toe. It is only the wall, and Jack’s firm hand, that are keeping me upright. It takes a good long while for the orgasm to subside – I think I can add duration to the personal best record. Yes, by far, that is the best orgasm I have ever had. And all at the tongue – and hand – of Jack Harkness.

He doesn’t waste a whole lot of time, does Jack. I am still shaking through the after-effects of my climax when he stands up and presses close against my back. I can feel his erection against the base of my arse as he nudges against me, and I know exactly what he is going to do. Sure enough, the blunt head pushes against the relaxed muscle and slowly enters my body. I see now why he went with the rimming first; it has been so long since we did this, the only way I could take him at the moment is precisely this way – directly after orgasm, while I am still so relaxed. It does not hurt at all, in fact it feels amazing. As if he is gently massaging all the nerves that are already tingling almost to an unbearable level. Yet he is not making me uncomfortable. On the contrary. I feel like I am simmering just below another orgasm, although I am unsure if I am capable of one just yet. With all the skill Jack has, I suspect it will happen, and may even be as good as the first two. I don’t think so, however. Nothing can top this last one. I don’t even mind if I don’t come again while he is in me – my goal now is simply to enjoy this, and to make sure that he reaches the pinnacle in a manner at least as satisfactorily as I just did.

I can tell that he is trying to hold back, moving slowly and carefully. His hands are gentle on my hips as he slides in and out of my body. The tremors are still running through me, and I know he can feel it as I tighten involuntarily around him. His fingers betray him every time, despite the easy grip he has on me. I let him continue to move in this fashion for a minute or so, but I don’t want this to go on forever – I want to feel all of him. I want to feel him lose control, to feel him hard and fast, to gasp and grip tight, to slam into me and leave bruises. Not because I want punishment for past infringements, although it is nothing less than I deserve, but because I just want to feel every inch of Jack as he loses himself in the moment, as passion takes all his control and throws it to the wind. It is moments like this that I wish I could watch him, as I know he would be beautiful in that moment of absolute freedom. To see all the cares and worries wash from his face as bliss consumes his features would be the ultimate sexual experience, I think. Just that would be enough to make me come again. In fact, the thought alone is enough to make me harden again – and yes, I am hard again. I am a little surprised, to be honest. I know I am young, and past experience has shown I have rapid refraction – as does Jack, we are well matched in that regard – but after my last orgasm, I was not expecting to recover any time soon. The intensity was too much, I thought.

But no. Jack’s movements have increased, just as my own length has. A quick glance out the corner of my eye and I can just see his face. The concentration on his brow surprises me. I wonder if he is trying to bringing me off again, or merely holding tight to his own control so he doesn’t lose it before he has a chance to enjoy himself. Without opening my mouth and asking outright, I have no way to know.

He looks up and catches my eye; I drop my head in shame. I think I am supposed to keep my face pressed forward into the tile, and not try to look back.

“Ianto, look at me.” Jack’s voice is close to my ear. I can feel his body along my back – his rhythm has changed as he has moved closer, slowing down again and becoming deeper. A jolt of arousal travels from my spine to the base of my length. If possible, I harden even further. I know blood leaves my brain in a rush, as my head is swimming.

I raise my head to look at Jack over my shoulder. He presses forward just far enough that we can touch our lips gently together. It is awkward – the reach is all wrong, as is the angle, but it is the best, the most intimate, of all the kisses shared so far this night. He is deep inside my body, I can taste myself on his lips, on the tongue he slips into my mouth, and I want nothing more than to stay like this forever.

It is as if he can read my mind. His body is now tight against mine, his hips are no longer snapping, but gently rocking, pushing him deeper and deeper into me, and our kisses are stronger. One of his hands slides around my body and up to a nipple, circling gently and rubbing over the peaked nub. The other is holding onto my length as if it is a lifeline – not hard, nor soft, but just firm enough to let me know his intentions, to not let me forget that he is there. Every now and then, he runs that hand along the length, up and down, circling the head and flicking his thumb across the slit, before settling back down at the base and squeezing gently. It is just enough to keep me at the edge, but not leave me feeling like I’m being teased unbearably.

I am still bent slightly at the waist, leaning against the wall, but because of Jack’s arm around me, I feel secure enough now to move one arm back to caress any part of him I can reach – his side, his thigh, the edge of his arse. I love how I can feel the muscle flex as he is moving in and out of my body. If I take that hand and move it around in front of myself, I can reach underneath my own body and feel back… back… to the point where we are joined. There is something so erotic about feeling the slide of his length as it goes through my fingers and into my arse, and then back the other way. I can feel Jack’s breath catch in his chest as he leans against my back, and in our kiss, as I touch him, and his rhythm falters somewhat. It is obvious it affects him as much as it affects me.

After what feels like hours, but may only have been minutes, Jack breaks off the kiss. He is gasping, and his ability to keep any sort of coherent movement is shot nearly to hell.

“Christ… Ianto… can’t. Can’t hold… Need to… need to…”

“Yes, yes, yes.” I realise that I am no better. I cannot believe that I am going to come again. Three times in one night is, I think, a first for me. In my twenties, at least. I might have done so when I was younger. I don’t honestly remember at this moment. Can you blame me? I am right, though; Jack does not mind if I come, and come – and come again.

Jack suddenly stills, slamming his hips hard into my arse. I can feel him pulsing deep inside, his entire body shuddering violently. He is swearing softly in my ear, something I have never heard him do during an orgasm before. I have heard him shout, I have seen him quiet, he has even yelled my name, but I have never heard him like this, as if his world has just been upturned. I wish I could see his face – maybe next time.

It is maybe a full minute before he stops shaking. He has spent the entire time draped over my back, using me to hold himself upright, I suspect. I am not sure, not without asking, but I feel that his orgasm may just have been as spectacular as my earlier one. It certainly felt like it from my perspective. Even though he is still deep inside, I can feel his essence already dripping from my arse. I am only glad we are already in the shower, and that I do not have to now drag my underwear up and go about my business around the Hub. While it would be a more-than-pleasant reminder of our time spent together, it would soon start to become uncomfortable.

Rather like my current situation, I think, as I look down my front. I am still hard as a rock, and desperately waiting to come. This time, it is not going to happen without a helping hand, so to speak. Jack let go during his orgasm, so mine – which was _so_ close, backed off just enough that it is going to take a little work to bring me over. I think, maybe, I might be better off if I just do this myself. I move my hand – the one I was using to touch Jack as he fucked me – and slide it forward to grasp my length firmly. It feels amazing, as I tug and pull in the manner I know will bring me to completion quickly, and hopefully while Jack is still lodged deep inside. I want him to feel it, too.

However, he has other plans. He notices what I am doing, and grabs my wrist, stopping my motion before I can become too heavily invested in the action. Damn him.

“No. This is mine.” His voice is a low growl, still husky and out of breath, but deathly serious. I let go immediately. There is no way I am going against his wishes when he sounds like that.

He pulls out of my body, a rush of warm fluid following and running down my leg. The shower catches it and washes it away, which both pleases me and disappoints me at the same time. I don’t like mess, especially on my skin, but something of Jack’s, especially something so personal after an event such as this? It is different. I don’t mind this so much. It means more – it’s a connection, of sorts. It is hard to explain. There is a part of me that revels in the mess that sex makes of a body, that wants to rub all the fluids into my skin, to enjoy all the scents and textures left behind after the event – it is all part of the experience, part of what makes it so amazing. To do this with Jack is even better. I now understand why Lisa was reluctant to clean up after sex, unless she knew she had to go directly out – or was planning on falling asleep. Nobody likes a wet spot. I truly understand her perspective now.

Jack spins me around and pushes my back firmly against the wall before clasping my hips and using me to lower himself to the floor of the shower. He must have knees of stone, as this is the second time he has been down there since we have entered. He wastes no time on foreplay – after all, we’ve already fucked, he’s already rimmed me, and he’s already come in my arse. He simply leans forward and swallows me down, using his tongue to bathe the underside as he goes. His throat tightens around me, and I can feel him humming as he pulls his head back. I watch, mesmerised, as my length reappears between his lips, only to disappear entirely again. He repeats this again, and again, swallowing hard each time, as if determined to actually separate it from my body by willpower alone. If anybody could it, it would be Jack.

Considering I have already climaxed twice in less than two hours, it takes an embarrassingly short time before I am tightening a hand in his hair in warning. I want to say something, but my voice has deserted me. I cannot even gasp out a warning, so my fingers are going to have to suffice. Thankfully, he seems to understand.

Or maybe not. I swear, he increases the tempo, causing me to pull even sharper on his hair. My hips would buck violently, most likely knocking him over, if it were not for the strong grip he has on them. I know I will have bruises there tomorrow, and I am looking forward to seeing them. I will get hard from that reminder alone, I know it.

My orgasm once again sweeps through me like a flash flood, sudden and insanely, violently intense. Whereas before my vision whited out immediately, I have no idea what happens this time. I know I feel the beginning of the orgasm, which is so pleasurable as to definitely be painful, and then nothing. I just know I am on the floor of the shower, my head cradled in Jack’s lap. Jack’s naked lap. It’s probably a good thing I honestly do not have the energy to do anything about that right this moment. The temptation is _very_ strong to just roll my head and return the favour recently bestowed upon me.

My eyes are closed – I think. Either that, or I have gone blind. The latter is a distinct possibility. An orgasm of that magnitude must have the potential to do damage, after all. I test my theory by blinking – not blind. The light in the bathroom is less intense than before, which is something I am thankful about. However, I didn’t think it was all that bright to begin with. I note that we are no longer in the shower, either. Wow. I must have actually passed out completely. Jack has moved us from the shower and we are sitting – well, he is sitting, and I am lying – on the floor of the bathroom, on large fluffy towels so we don’t get cold from the concrete floor, although my foot is out on the concrete and it isn’t cold. In fact, it feels quite warm, like radiant heat. I am starting to have my suspicions about this bathroom, when I take into account the water heater, and the modern fixtures. Still, my arse does appreciate the warmth, as well the tight grip that Jack has on it.

“Back with me, I see,” Jack’s voice is light, but I can hear the worry behind it. I wonder just how long I have been out. The room is warm – another thing I have suspicions about – but my body is dry, or nearly dry, which makes me think that it must have been for several minutes. Long enough for Jack to remove us both, and towel off my body, and his own, before sitting down with me to wait out my revival.

“Hmm.” Not much else I can say, to be honest. “Thank you, for, you know… drying me, not letting me drown in the shower, holding me, and—“

“Hey, no worries. You kind of had me—“

“—giving me the best bloody orgasms I’ve ever had in my entire life.” I am not about to let him interrupt what I have to say. I know the order is probably off, and that I should have started with that one first, but I know Jack – and judging by the leer he is giving me, my choice to go with that one last is correct. At least he heard the first part, before focusing all his attention on the second. I am so glad that we have finally had this time together, after all the angst and drama we have been through, after my terrible betrayal. I feel more at ease now, than I have since before Canary Wharf. Hell, since before I started dating Lisa, to be honest. I don’t have any expectations of marriage, or children or any shit like that. No pressure to be anything special. Just us, and what we have here. No more lies, no more deceit. Our troubles behind us. Of course, this being Torchwood, that could all change tomorrow. More than likely it will. I will take it one day at a time. Still, I have more to say.

“I know this was supposed to be about finding ways to use the stopwatch. I’m sorry for not living up to my promise of having a list.” The truth is, I don’t have a list. Well, other than that first obvious thing I mentioned earlier – how quickly could he make me come. Pretty bloody quick, it turns out.

“It doesn’t matter, Ianto. I think that it would be more fun to come up with a list together, don’t you think? I’m sure that between the two of us, we are more than capable of discovering new and inventive ways to use it.” Jack’s eyes are alight with desire as he looks down at me, but I am not afraid that he is going to jump me, not at this moment. It is more the desire of the game, the excitement of playing it with me, and what we two can do together. I know that my own face reflects his enthusiasm as I look back up at him.

“Yes, Sir!”

End


End file.
